


After You

by rubberbisquit



Series: Tempus [2]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M, dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-21
Updated: 2011-06-21
Packaged: 2017-10-20 15:19:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/214157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubberbisquit/pseuds/rubberbisquit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-DAII.  Hawke is left reeling in the wake of killing the man she loves.  She sets herself on a path of self-destruction before allowing her anger, at Anders and the world that created him, to over take her.  She turns that anger back on the world.  Cullen is there to remind her that she's not the only one in control.  Sexin!  A quasi-prequel to 'Of Heroes and Champions'.  More one-shots are in the works.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After You

There is a saying in Orlais. _Apres moi, le deluge_. Anders writes this on a piece of paper and sticks it in her favorite book for her to find, scant days after he blows up a Chantry and destroys her world.

Marian has held herself together over the last mornings and nights, hiding away in her new position and drinking herself into slumber. She has adapted to the absence of Anders, dead by her hand without regret.

However, when she finds these words in this, her most favorite tome, she breaks. Her frustration screams to the empty room and the sound brings people. Bran, forever disapproving, takes one look at her through the door before turning on his heel and walking off. He fetches Aveline when Marian doesn't stop crying, hours later, and the redhead tries to lead her home.

Marian refuses. She has not slept, and will not sleep, in the house she shared with that _monster_. She has spent the last weeks sleeping in borrowed bedchambers the next floor up but she will not be returning to them. Not tonight. She is fine just where she is, fuck you very much, Guard Captain.

Aveline gives up. She fetches Varric, who is still in Kirkwall despite his better judgment. The dwarf tells her a few stories; tries to coax her into calmness with memories of happier times. She punches him in the face, eyes bleary but still able to see his worried expression, when he says the words _Blondie_ and _love_ in the same sentence.

She's two days into the worst bottle of rum she can convince Bran to fetch for her when they bring round Bethany. Her little sister bears an escort of none other than the new Knight-Commander himself and Marian tries to punch him in the face too. Still a watch dog for the oppressed and _didn't people DIE for this?_ He's faster and bigger than Varric and she doesn't stand a chance against the looming armor that catches her. He sets her down in her chair and watches from the corner as Bethany tries to talk some sense into her as well.

Every word sounds hollow coming from her sister's mouth. She speaks of freedom, and duty, and honor. Marian fought for the position of viscountess. Giving up now isn't doing anyone any favors. Their parents, and Carver, loved her. She needs to live for them.

Marian reminds her that it’s a fluke that Bethany is even sitting here having this conversation. The elder has saved the younger by keeping her out of the Deep Roads only to condemn her to more servitude. Bethany would be better off running as far away as fast as possible. Anyone Marian has ever loved has ended up dead even her damned Dog.

Bethany does end up running; Marian can hear her crying all the way to the front door of the Keep. Cullen watches Marian for a long moment after the mage leaves before pushing himself off the wall. The templar deposits himself directly in front of her. She has eyes full of hate and he actually smiles down at her. "I loved a mage too, once. I understand."

She screams again. _No one could ever understand this._

 _I am **alone**_.

To his credit, Cullen isn't perturbed by the outburst. He's rather calm when he crouches down in front of her. "Remember that all things change."

Marian spends another two days holed up in her office and drinking cheap alcohol. She eats what Bran brings her and sleeps when she's tired and when she finally starts answering missives coming in from all over Thedas she realizes that she really _does_ have work to do.

She sends for Bodahn. Orana comes instead and reminds Marian that her manservant and his son left for Orlais after the _incident_. She hears those words again, in the back of her head. _Apres moi le deluge . . . after me comes the flood._ The elf scurries away with instructions and when Marian retires to her private living quarters in the Keep, her wardrobe is present. As are her bathing toiletries and she spends an hour in the bath, scrubbing away at her misery.

She sleeps off the worst of the pain and in the morning there is a glowing anger inside of her instead. She washes again; she smells the same, she thinks, with the same soap she's always used but somehow it’s different. Somehow desperate. This upsets her too but she doesn't cry. She sinks that frustration down into her stomach and allows Orana to dress her for the day.

Her clothes are strange and new; she has the trappings now of the most powerful woman in the city. Orana ties her into the bluest gown she can find and Marian allows the elf to pull her hair into something resembling a proper hair style. The woman who stares back at her from her dressing room mirror looks regal and refined but Marian can still see the cracks just beneath the surface.

There is a fear with this anger. Weakness. For a split second she imagines her eyes glow blue, the same color as the dress, and lighting pours from the creases of her skin. _There is no justice in being alone_.

Marian pushes away from the low table and stalks out of her rooms, down the stairs and into the main hall. The same push of people who have been waiting for an audience with her spark with interest when she appears and she nods once to Bran before heading to her chair in the ornate Throne Room. She climbs the steps that once ran red with Qunari blood from her own blades.

Court is in session.

She is in no mood for pity.

Her third case is actually presented by an apostate who is flanked by two members of the city guard. Aveline stands to the side now, arms crossed and looking expectant. The mage explains his predicament; he’s trying to leave the city. Templars have seized his money and his money. When he attempted to defend his home, the templars slaughtered one of his daughters before the guards had intervened. The man just wants to leave this all behind him.

Marian takes a long moment to observe the defeated man in front of her. He hangs between the two guards and its clear he’s been in a fight. His blood is black and crusted around his broken nose and lip.

“Where are the templars you accuse of murder?”

At the word murder the hushed crowd immediately shifts and murmurs.

Aveline chooses this moment to step forward. “The Knight-Commander took them back to the Gallows, Hawke.”

Her eyes are hard and cold with the dread and disdain sitting in her soul as she looks to her friend. “ _Viscountess_ , please, Guard Captain. Fetch Cullen here to me. I have a need to speak to him.”

She thinks that she must sound like Meredith, just a little, at that moment.

Cullen arrives hours later and long after the rest of the cases of the day have been brought before her. The attacked mage sits in one chair in her office, the two guards that brought him in standing outside the door, and Marian reads a missive from her cousin, away in Navarra apparently. Solona expresses her dismay at the death of Anders and promises to visit soon, if possible.

Marian misses Solona. And Fereldan. She’s halfway through a very poignant memory of a spring day, the sun on her face and her father’s voice in her ear, when she hears Cullen clear his voice at the door.

He has two templars behind him. At least she thinks they’re templars. They wear plain clothes and walk gingerly as he leads them into her office. The mage in the corner recoils at the sight of the two men.

Marian stands. She is contained rage and disaapointment and every child who has lost their world. She is beautiful in her anger and she can see Cullen’s eyes as they flicker down her body. She thinks this is probably the first time Cullen has ever seen her in anything but her soft leather armors or simple formal attire. His expression is indiscernible.

Inquiries are made. She demands an explanation and when he gives it, his tone is soft and even. Yes, these are the accused. Yes, they have been found guilty under his judgment. Yes, they have been punished.

She taps a single, slim finger against her lips at that last word. Punished. The two walk funny and look miserable. Otherwise they seem unaffected. This will not due. Not today. Not in the new Kirkwall that she now leads.

Her eyes find the mage. He is no longer huddled in fear yet he is shrunken in her chair. She sees Bethany doing the same thing sometimes when she closes her eyes. Fear and repulsion. “Mage.” The man stands and the three templars standing in front of her back away as the other man comes forward. “How old was your daughter?”

When he speaks, the man stutters but manages to explain. His girl, his sunshine, was just turned nine.

“Would you see these men killed for the crime done to your family?”

His head shakes violently. “No, messere. I just want to leave, in peace.” He adds the last bit softly and without hope.

Her finger is tapping again. This must be her new ‘thinking’ gesture. When she speaks again she allows no softness to enter her voice. She is firm judgment. “The City of Kirkwall will no longer abuse of any of its citizens. Templars, step forward.” Marian doesn’t even care to know their names. “In light of this mage’s testament, I will allow you to keep your heads. You will be whipped nine times by the Quartermaster this evening. You will be allowed no healer. You will then be exhiled from this place and your position within the Templars of Kirkwall is now revolked. May the Maker have mercy on your souls.”

At her words, everyone in the room shifts uncomfortably. This is as good as a death sentence, denied aide and sent into the wilderness. They also know she hasn’t the right, not really, to interfere with the Templars like this. The story expression that Cullen wears tells her that she’ll be arguing that one later. No one questions her decree however and when she calls in the guards at the door to remove the offenders there is no rebuttal.

She turns her back to the group, crosses her arms and allows herself a moment to contemplate the view from her window. She is so very high up here in this office. Untouchable. Behind her, the sound of metal and soft robes slowly filters back to the ante chamber.

She hears the doors close and her arms drop. The sigh that escapes sounds impossibly heavy. Mages and templars still openly warring in the street means that the last few days she’s spent in bottles of rum have done a great disservice to the city. She needs to put her foot down. Stomp out any thoughts of a repeat of Anders. “Maker save us all.”

Behind her she hears the almost silent of leather straps creaking and her body tenses as she realizes she’s not alone. She doesn’t have her blades on her, however, and in a dress this cumbersome . . . she stays still and waits for the sound of attack.

It never comes and instead the familiar clank of heavy plate armor approaches her desk. Aveline, perhaps, staying behind to have a word about her heavy punishment. The throat that clears is definitely male however and she turns; beneath her finery and silk she is ready to fight whatever she must.

It is Cullen who stands on the other side of her desk. Cullen with the angry eyes and thunderous expression. Cullen, ready to defend his men and give her a piece of his mind for trying to butt in on his command.

“Before you say anything, remember that you and your men supported my ascent to viscountess. Any complaints you have about my choices here today can be laid to rest at the feet of templars.”

This only makes him angrier, it seems. His face floods with color and he stalks closer, rounding the wood separating them. At this distance she can see he’s got freckles. Of all the things to notice . . .

“If I had known that you would throw away everything good you’d ever done in this city over the pain of the memory of a dead terrorist I’d have thrown the lot of you in prison the day I met you out on the Coast all those years ago, Serah Hawke.” He is so very angry, shaking in front of her. But, it feels like it’s more than just her condemnation of his men. He sounds disappointed too.

“If I had known you’d be as oppressive as your predecessor I’d have chased the lot of you out of this city the day I slew Meredith. And it’s Viscountess, now.” She is sick of people forgetting that. Her nostrils flare, picking up on the dismay that’s slowly filling the room. A week of drinking and forgetting and remembering and _aching_ with the loss of her entire world comes barreling out of her hands as she shoves his chest.

He is expecting this outburst yet he still stumbles back a few paces. She advances with eyes now wild. “This is the second Circle you’ve seen in shambles, isn’t it _Knight-Commander_. Sounds like you’re just a terrible templar after all. And what about that confession of yours? You loved a mage once too? What sort of Knight are you?!” Her voice has risen to a near shout but no one comes in to investigate. Not this time.

He grabs her wrists as she brings her hands up to shove him again and he pulls her, quick as he can, to his chest. “I’ve always done my best to follow orders and be true to what’s good and what’s right. Even as I loved a mage.” That last word has barely left his tongue when she turns her hands over and breaks free of his grip.

She is disturbed by the heat in his eyes. His presence in close proximity feels dangerous. She’s pretty sure she could take him in a fight. Maybe. If they don’t calm down she’ll find out real quick.

He doesn’t allow her a respite, however. She isn’t sure where he learned how to crowd those smaller than him, but he’s doing a damned fine job of backing her into her desk and looming. Did he ever loom before today? She feels the back of her thighs touch hard wood and it’s only her hands coming down to brace on the desk as well that keeps her from falling back.

“I’ve heard about your cases today. You’ve sentenced seven men to death in the last ten hours.” His voice is dark; gravel bites at the edge of his words as he dips his words and leans close. “What is it with you Amells, eh? Do I have a sign on my back that gives incentive to screw with me?”

Her first thought is that he’s deluded if he thinks this is about him. Her second is that perhaps it is, right now at least. Seeing him with Bethany almost a week ago has left a bitter taste in the back of her mouth that lingers.

She remembers a clearing between her first hometown, Fughett, and Lothering and the soft firelight flickering over her cousin’s face as the two of them had fled for their lives. Solona had confessed there her love of a templar. This templar. Marian remembers this day, almost eight years prior, with the haze of time but the affection of good friendship. She hadn’t known she and Solona were related (second cousins twice removed on Marian’s mother’s side, or so Solona had attempted to explain) and when the both of them had made the discovery that they were kin it had only cemented the bond they’d forged on the road from Ostagar.

In Marian’s eyes, her cousin is a saint and this man, this templar of all things, speaks of Solona as a menace despite admitting to loving her once. Marian is confounded and still feels cloistered. When she doesn’t respond to his taunts, too caught up in memory to really think of a good comeback, he leans closer still.

A heavily gauntleted hand slams on the table next to her hip.

Solona had loved this man once. She’d said he was smart, wasn’t like the other templars. And Marian would have agreed had he never continued the reign of oppression that Meredith had started. They had built a friendship over the years, she and Cullen, despite her proclivities to run with known apostates.

“We Amells considered you in high regard Knight-Commander. No more, I think. My cousin has not mentioned you in close to six years and I see you taking up Meredith’s mantle with every caged breath my sister takes.”

“Is that what you think of me, oh Champion? That I squirrel your sister and her kind away in my evil prison and torture them? Perhaps I have my wicked way with them as well.” His eyes flicker down and his free hand rises to pluck lightly at the laces at the front of her gown.

The change in him is sudden and palpable. His closeness, the warmth of his breath on her cheek and that predatory look in his stare, sends a shiver through her body. This is a threat of a completely different kind now. She can sense it fully. Marian marvels at the abrupt turnabout.

When that looks finds her own eyes she feels her anger turn to something else. Something even more base and primal. Lust. This realization is more dangerous that being stuck in a room with a fully armed and armored templar without weapons while wearing a dress.

“Cullen-“

“Knight-Commander. I have a title too, _Serah_. Please remember that I earned mine through hard work.” His fingers, still at her laced, drift to her shoulder and trace a path over her right breast. She squirms under the touch and the hard metal of his gauntlet tightens around her upper arm. “I’ve heard rumors about how you managed to get your ancestral home back. Tell me; was Dumar so easily swayed by your pretty mouth and your curves?”

She raises her chin a fraction and smiles, slowly. She isn’t sure where this streak of Cullen’s is coming from, but she sort of likes it. This is the first time in a while she hasn’t been blindly followed . . . he’s the first person since she became Champion who has dared handle her with anything other than silk gloves.

It’s . . . thrilling. It’s not anger that simmers within her now.

“That’s between me and the dead. There is one thing I’d like to know though . . .” He frowns at her smirk. “When you look at me, do I remind you of her? Any familial resemblance to strike home the fact that you’ve failed at most everything you’ve attempted your entire career as a templar?”

He is so damned quick. Fingers wrapped in steel are on her throat before she’s done with her barb. The last word is choked out as a brief struggle begins: his hand slowly squeezes the air from her lungs and she finds the dagger Cullen keeps tucked beneath his waistband.

She doesn’t panic. She can hold her breath. Rather, she’s the picture of calm as she holds his gaze and makes three swift movements at his left side. Cullen doesn’t realize that she’s got his dagger until he feels the armor wrapping his body sag to the right. There’s a surreal moment where his hand loosens, air floods back to her lungs, and he glances around at the suddenly spacious metal suit.

Marian is angry once more.

It’s all the opening she needs. The blade slips easily up the inside of his left arm as well. The way he jerks makes her think that she must have nicked him. He’s moving now, but she’s got his number and when he reaches for her she brings up a knee. She know where templars don’t wear armor and this is where her blow hits; one small unarmored spot right where the thigh meets the groin.

She digs in, riding his all the way to the ground as he falls.

Her knee is planted, her other foot balances her, and her hands are suddenly a whirlwind of activity. She does not want to see the symbol on his chest anymore. She hates this symbol. Cullen is still wheezing when she cuts the straps on the right side. She cuts the shoulder straps; they come undone with a creak and a pop.

There is silence as she works and it is only when she has finally removed the offending breastplate and thrown it across the room that she pauses to take a breath. Underneath her the Knight-Commander is still. Pain still traces weary fingers across his brow but he is no longer huffing underneath her leg. He looks rather amused instead.

She can take of that smirk as well. This dagger is well balanced. It hits the wood next to his head and sticks. She leans in. “I will not allow the Templars to create another hot mess for me to clean up. This is _my_ city.”

Marian is expecting his hands to raise and grab at her. Perhaps to roll them so he would have the advantage or to reach for her neck once more to resume the choking. He does neither of these things.

Cullen’s eyes are a particularly vibrant shade of green, she thinks. He holds her gaze and raises both gauntlets in front of himself, in front of her. The gloves come off. Heavy plate slams to the ground, one set at a time. From here it is only a matter of a shake and a twist and more armor falls to the ground. He is bare of the offending metal covering his entire upper body and he lowers his hands to rest them on her thighs.

Completely at her mercy.

Between her and the Maker he’d have had better luck with the Maker.

Beneath the fabric of her skirts she can feel the heat from his palms; it almost burns.

And then . . . and then his fingers flex, long slim bits of strength that grasp her legs. She shifts under the pressure and another smirk appears on his face. She can feel those fingers dig into the muscle he finds; his thumbs rotate inward.

She should be outraged at the intrusion but honestly she knows she’s brought this upon herself. More than anything, at this moment, she wants _this_. She wants this heady feeling swallowing her and making her forget the horrors of her life, if only for a little while. Marian leans forward. Her breast brush against the soft fabric of his shirt and her hair falls forward. They exist in this shallow space now. Her eyes widen as his thumbs dip closer to her center and she watches his lips part. A quiet gasp escapes his parted lips as she rotates her hips  
just  
a  
little.

That soft sound makes her quirk her lips and press down a little harder. He squirms in response. The heat of his hands and her thighs on his side is delicious. “Have you even done this before Cullen? Don’t you have vows of some sort?” She is merciless with her words as well as her movements. He gasps again, louder this time, as one hand traces a lazy path up his ribs.

“Ever the sarcastic bitch, aren’t you Hawke? Always have to be in control unti l you’re not and then you just strike out at those around you. Perhaps you need to learn how to just let go.” There’s no malice in his voice but he deflects her question further with a hand. She thinks that this is rich, coming from a templar. Raising fingers to the front of her gown, he tugs at her laces once more. The fabric parts under his fumbling and he slips inside.

He has never been _just_ a templar, though, has he? Solona knew he was special. Knew he was different. It’s hard to reconcile this information about him even as strong fingers, calloused and ever ready for battle, cup her left breast. Marian throws her head back and moans. Cullen leans up and closes his lips around the nipple he’s teased into a hard point. His tongue takes over where his fingertips left off and she is soon the one squirming.

She doesn’t really notice his other hand finding its way underneath her skirts. Once moment it rests at the inner curve of her hip and the next it brushes over her ankle, to her knee, and once more back to her hip.

He’s giving her a wicked grin when she opens her eyes and looks at him beneath hooded eyes. His lips are still locked around her flesh; he tugs gently with his teeth even as he grins wider. Predatory. He looks at her as though she were a deer and he a hunter.

She is opening her mouth to say something, raising her hands to push him back down to gain a measure of control over the situation, when her left hand, the one that’s been teasing at her core, slips fully between their bodies. Words are lost in a low moan as a finger finds her entrance. She responds louder; one digit dips into her slowly. Just the tip. He finds her dripping and moans his own approval. The position is awkward and he has just enough room to push up to the second knuckle. A tightness builds in her core and she presses her hips down onto his hand. He brushes against her clit with his palm and that tightness becomes a burning.

“Maker, Cullen.”

He lets go of her breast with a loud pop but runs the flat of his tongue against the flesh. The sensation is rough and brilliant and she tries to ride his hand harder.

With a hand at her back and one still buried between her legs he shifts her weight and lifts until he’s sitting up and her rear slams into the hard concrete of the floor. Like this, his legs holding her own open, she is spread before him. Skirts now pushed away up and top undone, she is exposed to his hungry gaze.

For a moment, she worries. She thinks that this is doing no one any good. She does no honor to the memory of the man she still loves, body burned and ashes spread Anders is still with her. Cullen sees this doubt in her eyes and locks his gaze with hers.

There is no wicked smile, no cheeky grin, on his face now. He is expressionless as he slowly removes his finger. She aches for the loss of it, her walls clenching around nothing and her hips shifts forward.

Then . . . _then_ . . . she feels two fingers at her entrance and he pushes back in to her. The desk is behind her and her head makes a hollow thud when it connects with the wood. A third finger joins the first two and she is full to the point of pain. He stretches her and rotates his hands; his thumb, idle until now, reaches just above and teases at her clit.

She can do nothing against this onslaught of sensation. Her left hand grips her bare chest, her finger nails are sharper than his and leave angry red welts around her nipple where they pluck pinch. She grabs his wrist with the other hand and urges him faster.

More. She needs more.

She is so wet she can feel it dripping past her opening and down, down to her ass and the cool wetness creates a strange smoothness between her skin and the stones of her office floor. She is not expecting his pinky to follow her wetness and when he reaches the puckered flesh of her behind her eyes fly open once more. He is still expressionless. She wants to open her mouth to protest. She’s never . . . that is to say . . . no one has . . .

He crushes his lips to hers, silencing her protests. It is strange to kiss someone new after spending so long is a monogamous relationship. She has only a moment to catalogue the differences between Cullen’s lips and Anders before she feels the tip of his pinkie, slick with her own juices, presses into yet another hole. The sensation is just too much, too full and surely his finger shouldn’t feel so . . .

She is screaming into his mouth as she crashes into that euphoric bliss she so craves. She barrels past the precipice. An abyss until any she’s ever experienced before fills her even as his fingers continue to work her flesh to the point of a secondary explosion.

More suddenly becomes too much. Far too much. She tightens her grip on his wrist, urging him to stop. “Please, stop . . . “

“I’ll stop when I’m done with you.” He pushes her words back with another bruising kiss; teeth grab at her bottom lip and bite. The copper tang of blood fills both their mouths. She shudders, the movement driving his fingers into her once more, as he laps at the soft flesh of her lips.

She is shocked out of her inaction by this and she brings both hands up to grab at the fabric covering his chest. She is tearing it open, the light linen giving way rather easily underneath her touch. The fingers within her scissor in response. He slips one finger from her cunt to join the pinky.

The pressure fills her body and she squeals. Pushes at his shoulders now and attempts to move him to his back. The thumb circling her clit tightens. All of his fingers squeezes and he _holds_ her down. “Let go.” She jerks again. His grip on her tightens even more. It’s bordering on pain now and her entire world narrows to those five fingers and the intent gaze of Cullen’s green eyes.

“Please-“ She doesn’t even know what she’s begging for.

“Please, what, Viscountess Hawke?” His fingers scissor, there is pressure at every sensitive nerve in those most private places.

“Please let my sister go.” The words come from out of nowhere, the worry and fear of losing the last person who truly cares about her pouring forth. Tears fall freely. She sees Anders, his face soft with spent passion and the back of his head, his blood on her hands, as he slumps to the ground. She sees the bodies of mages Cullen swore to protect, many felled by her own blades. Her control cracks and then explodes around his grip.

A sob breaks her lips. She shudders again, amazed and delighted at how easily he’s able to bring her to orgasm. He holds himself in tight restrain as she drifts down. Slowly he pulls fingers from her body and with his other hand wipes the moisture dripping down her face. Whatever tentative wall she’s erected since finding that note is banished and she cries harder. His arms pull her tight.

The pain and the fear are different. They hurt but they don’t burn. She knows that she’s lost, true and well past the point of being able to save herself, save anyone, anymore.

Cullen holds her for long minutes. Her cheek slides against the skin of her chest, her tears mingling with the slick of his sweat. As her emotions spiral back to earth, she realizes that she feels immeasurably content and . . . relaxed. She is empty now. Of worry. Of anger. The wounds of the past feel cauterized and far away.

Marian manages to lift her head and look up into the face of this man. He seems rather pleased with himself and at the same time completely unconcerned with his own satisfaction. She wonders if she shouldn’t perhaps give him a hand, much like he gave his. As one of her hands descends he shakes her head and catches her wrist. His brings that hand to his mouth and brushes a kiss across a knuckle.

“I have _vows_ to uphold Hawke.” There is mischief in his eyes and she thinks that she has never seen him so casual. “Helping out a colleague is one thing . . . but I cannot permit you to touch me in such a fashion.” Still joking and still smiling.

She just stares at him. Trying to figure out what exactly, besides mind blowing orgasms, just happened. She opens her mouth multiple times, to ask what the fuck or perhaps how the fuck but she just keeps snapping her jaw shut in favor of blissful stupor.

Cullen helps her to her feet. Her dress falls back into place and he doesn’t lace the front back up. He wiggles a hand, the one that had just been so recently inside of her. She can see its smeared with her juices and she understands not wanting to stain fine garments. So, she resets her own laces and stands on wobbling legs as he adjusts his clothing and gathers his armor.

She thinks he means to leave without another word but pauses at the door. His shirt is ripped to the navel. He’ll make an interesting sight all the way to the Gallows this night. She hopes a few of the templars around high town will escort him safely.

“You’re in charge of this city, Hawke. You need to think about that. Don’t be a tyrant.” The door opens. As he walks out, he calls over his shoulder, “I’ll send Bethany home tomorrow so long as you promise you’ll let her out to continue helping the younger mages. She’s very fond of them.”

The heavy wood of her office door slams behind him and Marian Hawke crumples back to the floor.

She knows the wound on her soul that is Anders is still a long way from being healed. The wounds that Anders left on the city also need healed and those will be much simple, faster, to take care of. At least she hopes so. But, she can’t do it not alone. She’s never been able to do much of anything alone. She has friends; she can’t save to world by herself.

Tomorrow she’ll return to the Amell estate and start being what she needs to be. Herself.


End file.
